


Blur(red)

by WinchesterConfidential



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blades, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 06:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12315666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinchesterConfidential/pseuds/WinchesterConfidential
Summary: Dean summons Crowley. It's (not) about Sam.





	Blur(red)

Dean feels Crowley's eyes on him the second the demon appears. He stays where he is, and hopes the measured strokes of the blade on the strop don't falter. 

“Hello, Dean.”

It's different when Crowley says it. Cas never sounded so suspicious and so lascivious all at once. Dean grinds his molars. Runs the razor over the leather again.

“To what do I owe this distinctive pleasure?” 

Dean doesn't have to be looking to know the dark head inclines toward his immaculate summoning in the corner.

“Sure got here in a hurry,” he replies. 

“I was  _ summoned _ —or have you forgotten how that works?” Crowley always sounds impatient, Dean reminds himself. Crowley is also more insecure than anyone knows. 

So Dean waits. Runs the razor over the strop. 

“You know, that's creepy,” Crowley remarks. “Even for you.”

The blade makes a particular sound as it sharpens. Dean's had some thoughts on that before, the metaphors there for sloughing off old hurts, making oneself into a weapon. He wonders if a soul makes a sound like that as it's honed into an individual. He wonders who can hear it. 

“Is this about Sam?”

No, it's about more than Sam. Dean's brother is present in all things, is the root of most, but this stems from a place even deeper than that. This feeling Dean tries to shove away into the leather, to get it out of his chest, where it's been festering and making it difficult for him to sleep. Or do anything, really. The state of the room around him is testament to that. 

It's difficult to focus when every breath comes too short, when his hands spasm if they're aimless at his sides and his mind won't let anything go.

He gets this way sometimes, when he thinks about running. About doing something more drastic than letting his feet slap at the pavement, about running in bloodier, more permanent ways.

“I can see the cogs turning behind that pretty face of yours.”

Dean scowls. He shoves the razor too hard down the leather, too short a stroke. It hisses at him. 

“If it's not about Sam, that's all you have to say,” coaxes the infuriating bastard in the black trenchcoat. Not that Dean has been side-eying him or anything. “Three little words.”

“Fuck you,” Dean grates. Has to cough. His voice is a disused gravel pit. “Not about Sam.”

“I'm disinclined to believe you.”

“Well it ain't, all right?” The razor clatters down on the desk, the chair skittering away on its back. Dean is on his feet too quickly but he powers through the head rush. “Sam's got nothing to do with this.”

That's an outright lie. They both know it. Crowley doesn't have to say so, just levels Dean a look he perfected while Dean's eyes were as black as the demon's attire.

Dean stares him down. 

After a tense, interminable moment, Crowley shrugs. “No skin off my arse. Just tell me why I'm here.”

Not sure how to word his request—not even sure he can say any of it aloud—Dean glares. 

Crowley’s expression softens. Damn him. Always saw right through Dean, and that's why they're here, isn't it? That's how this came to pass. They'll never be free of those nights. And for Dean, at least… They'll never want to be. 

Looks like that might be mutual, though. Good. Dean needs to feel it all, and that will take a particular brand of compassion only a demon who's been human can provide. 

“You realize this puts me in a delicate conundrum.”

Dean scoffs.

“I made… promises.” Crowley wrinkles his nose. “And one of them was to you, if you'll recall.”

It flashes through Dean's memory. A caress, and a whisper:  _ I will never burden you with more than you can bear.  _ Like he thought he was God or something. He was, in a way, Dean supposes; god of their moth-eaten nest of a room and every hallelujah that fell from Dean's lips. 

“I'm releasin’ you from that,” he says. 

“It was for your own protection—”

“I don't need protecting!” Dean blazes. “I need distracting.”

Now it's Crowley’s turn to scoff. “So you summon me like some two-bit whore? I am the bloody King of—” His eyes widen. “Dean, put the razor down.”

“No,” Dean says quietly. The word feels odd in his mouth. He sets the point of the straight edge against the pale skin of his wrist, poised to drag it straight down the road.

“Whatever you need to talk about, we can—”

“Oh, so you're Dr. Phil now?”

“Dean,” and he's gratified in some sick way to finally hear panic enter Crowley's tone, “don't be stupid.”

“I'm not stupid,” Dean sighs, “I'm tired.” He presses the point down. Sharp, stinging pain, barely an insect bite but with far more weight. A dark drop of blood wells. Color mars the blade. 

“Tired? Take a vacation! To, I don't know, Bali—not a permanent timeshare in Chuck's Motor Lodge.”

Dean shakes his head. Slowly. Sadly. He doesn't know anymore. That's why Sam isn't here. Sam is so good at facts, things to know, and Sam would be babbling right now, a million and one reasons to stay. All of them coated in a voice that should mean comfort. Stability. Home. 

But they've never really had any of those things, have they? They've been a home on the run for each other, but they're a piss-poor excuse for a nuclear family. For any family. So co-dependent. So wrong. 

And people keep dying around them. Maybe that'll stop if Dean goes. Maybe the reapers will be satisfied, and maybe the world just keeps on ticking. People will still die, sure, but it won't be in excess and it won't be because of him. 

He drags the razor down his arm, quick and sure, hard as he can. 

Brimstone and cologne flood his nostrils. A sure hand wraps carelessly around the blade and casts it away to clatter against the opposite wall. Strong arms wrap around Dean. The embrace is fierce. Immovable. 

“You are not killing yourself,” Crowley says, husky and pissed.

“Fuck you,” Dean whispers. He sags against the iron grip. 

“What do you think you're proving? That you're strong enough to do it?” Bitter whiskey and copper on every word. “That it wouldn't bloody matter? And you  _ summoned  _ me, to what—be your  _ audience?” _

Dean shakes his head. No, that wasn't it. But the reasons aren't as clear anymore. “Let me go.”

“Not until I'm sure you won't hurt yourself, you insufferable—”

“Let me  _ go!” _ Dean roars, bucking back, trying to break the hold.

Crowley’s eyes flare red. “Never,” he snarls. He slam their lips together, bruising and inescapable. 

Dean should shove him away, should—

_ Tug him closer, _ whispers the tiredest part of him, and Dean listens to that.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't, and it still isn't, except how it totally is. _—D_


End file.
